No One Noticed
by Mireekian
Summary: No one noticed someone slip something into Draco Malfoy’s drink. No one noticed when Draco Malfoy became ill. No one noticed, and now Hermione is paying for it. [DMHG] [Light and Fluffy]
1. Monday Morning

**Summary**: No one noticed someone slip something into Draco Malfoy's drink. No one noticed when Draco Malfoy became ill. No one noticed, and now Hermione is paying for it.

**Rating**: K – Yes, I'm actually doing a cute mini-series!! Suitable for a family!! Gasp!

**Warning**: Dudes, ya gotta review or I'll crack yur skulls open. …..Juuuuuuus Kidding! Well, sort of – you still gotta review. :D Oh, and by the way, this fic will be really short. As in, under-ten-chapters short. It'll probably be as long as a rather long oneshot, when you tie all the chapters together.

**Disclaimer:** I do not claim ownership to Harry Potter. You all should know by now that JK Rowling does.

**Reviews:** I'll give you a cookie winkwink… C'mon, you know you wanna!

**No One Noticed**

_By Mireekian_

_Monday Morning_

"Hey, did you hear about that Zabini kid? Got put into the hospital wing…"

"Didn't Malfoy just have a huge row with him? Well, that's a coincidence."

"What about that Parkinson chick?"

"I heard she accused Malfoy of cheating with Granger – 'cause of the whole Heads-share-a-dorm-thing – and now she's holed up with some weird reaction too!"

"Same thing happened with Bulstrode and Goyle, I heard!"

"I guess that's why their table is so empty, huh?"

"If Malfoy goes on like this, there'll be no Slytherins around… this is gonna be great!"

_Three days later…_

"He got Loony Lovegood too!"

"Can you believe the nerve?! I just wanna know how he did it. There's no way he's getting to me."

"He got to Abbot, though. Even for a Hufflepuff, she's pretty smart. He must be sneaking some hex while their backs are turned. This has gotta stop before he gets too far!"

_The Next Day…_

"I can't believe this."

"Yeah. Me neither. I mean – _Harry Potter_. Harry Potter! And Ron Weasley, too!"

"I'm scared. I mean – you know who he is! He's gunna get us down, one-by-one. Soon there won't be anyone left to stop him."

"You think Dumbledore knows?"

"I don't know. All I know is that everyone Malfoy sends to the Hospital Wing doesn't come back."

"McGonagall said something about 'sanitary isolation.'"

"What's that? Sounds like some sort of muggle term."

"It probably is. All I know is, they've resorted to using muggle methods to counter Malfoy's work. He's probably made it so there's no cure! We gotta get to him. Gotta get to him first, before he gets to us."

"I agree. But how? There'd be too many witnesses for a hex."

"Hmm… Wait! I've got it! You know that spell you looked up? Why don't we try that, but add in some of our own spice. We can do it at dinner – make him eat or drink it so it affects him faster. There's no Slytherins left besides him, really. No one else could get hurt."

"I don't know…"

"Nobody'll notice! C'mon… he'll get us if we don't get him first!"

"Yeah. Hey yeah! You're right. I think that just might work."

"Exactly. Maybe this time it'll get Malfoy out of our hair for good."


	2. Friday, At Dinner

**No One Noticed**

_By Mireekian_

_Friday, at dinner…_

Scowling at anyone who came near, Draco was definitely not having a good day. Or a good year. Or… scratch that. His whole life wasn't going all that great.

Oh, irony abounds…

After six years of humiliating Potter and his troupe, it just all had to come back to haunt him, didn't it? He'd made Head Boy, and entirely deserved it, contrary to the rumours. He'd worked his fingers to the bone the last two years to get good enough grades for this position, as his father and his father's father before him had been Head Boy, as well as Quidditch Captain, and holders of the House Cup when they attended Hogwarts.

So far two of his goals had been reached. If only he'd known beforehand how hard it would be to keep them… the sacrifices he had to make.

Every night. Eleven O'Clock. Patrolling. With Granger…

…

…Ugh.

And now nearly everyone in the whole lot of Slytherin were sick with some twisted variation of the flu, which had somehow began as toxic mould in one of Zabini's girlfriend's raunchy experiments (a Ravenclaw, see), and Zabini continued on to poison the whole group.

Draco was the 'lucky' one. Draco was the 'safe' one. Draco was the one living in a separate dorm that he shared with Hermione Granger, of all people, as student Heads.

If only they knew how infuriating she could be.

"'Pick up your bag, Malfoy,' 'Your socks are on the rug, Malfoy,' 'Get your ruddy Divinations text off my Astronomy paper, Malfoy,'" he mouthed angrily, stabbing into his steak harder than necessary.

At least he didn't have to worry about his reputation anymore. Without the other Slytherins nearby, no one paid him any attention. In fact, he could probably stand up and scream that Voldemort was hiding under his bed in his shared dorms with Granger… and no one would notice.

With more force than he should have, Draco shoved the steak into his mouth and didn't so much as chew as grind his teeth together very slowly, imagining the Golden Trio – specifically Granger – to be the meat between his teeth, completely at his mercy. He ground a little harder.

When his throat got too constricted, he shot back his glass of pumpkin juice in one gulp and moved to leave –

And promptly sat back down again, his head spinning, his meal threatening to come back up.

Had his anger at Granger made him so dizzy he could barely see straight (or not at all, but Draco didn't want to believe that)? Maybe. It had happened before…

When he stopped seeing stars, Draco glanced up to pin an accusing glare on what he was sure to be the reason behind every injustice in his world… That filthy little Mudblood.

With dawning rage, Draco realized he'd looked up just in time to see her leaving the Gryffindor table, heading towards the staff table, or more realistically just to the left of it, where Draco knew the short cut lied to their common room.

The rule with Friday dinners for them, was that whoever got there first after dinner got to do whatever they liked over the weekend… including have friends over. The pounding in Draco's head must have shaken something loose, because he suddenly forgot about the flu bug going around… and the fact that Potter and Weasley were both locked up in the infirmary.

Instead he staggered to his feet and, without anyone taking note of his departure (as compared to Granger's, who received several well-wishes from various people in the student population as she walked past) Draco left. He had just gotten past the hidden doorway when his shaky knees gave out and he crumpled to his hands and knees, breathing harshly, trying to shake a bead of sweat away from his eyes.

He didn't… he couldn't understand when… he'd been fine right up until…

Blackness.

Draco Malfoy fainted.


	3. Friday, After Dinner

_Friday, After Dinner…_

Hermione wondered what she should do first. She had a Potions essay due Monday, but she wasn't really in the mood to do any potions because she had to look forward to spending all of Saturday morning with Madame Pomfrey researching and discussing potions to cure the flu, so she supposed she could do the essay after that.

Or… she could head to the library first and check out a book on healing potions so she could brainstorm ideas for the meeting tomorrow. She did have an overdue book she needed to hand in…

But then, she had promised Ginny and Luna that they could sleep over that night, since she was pretty sure she would get the dorm. She could believe she had to resort to this, though… making up rules just so she and the Head Boy wouldn't breathe down each other's necks.

And in front of the professors, they'd agreed they would act like they were getting along! Now all her teachers thought that she and Malfoy, Head Girl and Head Boy, would be perfect together for assignments. It was degrading, having to work with him!

Even with the Friday rule up, she and Malfoy had acted almost upon some sort of unspoken agreement that they would operate sort of by turn. Last week, the dorm had been his, so naturally the day before, she'd promised Ginny and Luna that they could sleep over.

Then it all had to change when Luna got sick.

But she still had plans with Ginny!

With a gasp, she remembered she hadn't told her friend whether or not she could come. Rolling her eyes at her forgetfulness, Hermione turned heel back down the private corridor with determined intent to bring back her friend, and if Malfoy got there first, she would just have to tell him too bad; _she_ was there first. Besides, it wasn't as if Malfoy had anyone left in his House to have plans with anyways…

"EEEEEEEK!"

With a shriek, Hermione tumbled head over heels, her books cascading everywhere, and she landed with a thump on her backside, her ankles trapped somewhere behind her and her bushy hair in a whirlwind above her.

It felt like someone had put a tripping jinx or something on her…

Malfoy.

With a growl, she tossed her hair out of her face and tried, unsuccessfully, to pat it down. When it didn't settle anyways, she whipped out her wand and, with her eyes looking down the empty corridor until she scanned right to the door, cast, "Finite Incantum…"

…

…And nothing happened.

Her feet, still firmly stuck, were obviously not a victim of the average tripping hex.

Hesitantly, a stone forming in her stomach, Hermione turned around.

There, lying in front of her, completely prone and completely unconscious, was Draco Malfoy.

"Professor McGonagaaaaaallllll!!!!" Hermione yelled, still staring. "Help!"

---

"So what you're saying is that the hospital wing is completely full?" Hermione asked dazedly.

McGonagall sighed. "Yes, Miss Granger. And as you are Head Girl and Mr. Malfoy here is Head Boy, I'm sure you're familiar enough with him to treat him. Don't worry, you're exempt from your weekend lesson with Madame Promfrey, on the condition that you help get your dorm-mate back up to health."

Was that supposed to cheer Hermione up? It didn't.

"I'll also be sure to get the prefects… what's remaining of them, anyway… to take up your nightly patrols. We simply cannot have our Student Heads out of commission, Miss Granger. It is highly unethical, as you two promise to be excellent graduates and we simply cannot have either of you fall behind in your studies."

With an apologetic smile, the first sign of any emotion the Gryffindor Head of House had shown since escorting the two Student Heads up to their dorm, Professor McGonagall quietly backed out of the room, shutting the door quietly.

Inside, Hermione stared with growing horror at the boy… no, _creature… _lying down on their tan leather sofa beside their grand fire. He seemed almost lost among the gold and silver blankets that had been thrown over him.

Gulping, Hermione cautiously set down her bag and approached the couch curiously.

It could leap up at her at any moment. Claws out, jaws snapping. Deranged, like.

Malfoy's brows were knitted and a thin sheen of perspiration stood out on his pale forehead, once Hermione had ventured close enough to get a good look at him. He still hadn't woken up, and judging from his unruly hair and flushed cheeks, the most colour she could ever remember seeing on him, Hermione thought he wasn't faking it.

He was sick.

She had to take care of him.

That was that.

With a groan, Hermione sank to sit on what little space was left above Malfoy's head on the sofa, rubbing her temple agitatedly. Now she couldn't have her sleepover with Ginny, she couldn't research potions, which would be a huge part of her post-Hogwarts studies as a Medicines Researcher, and she couldn't just settle down and relax on the weekend.

No, instead she was babysitting poor, sick, little Malfoy until he got better. So said McGonagall, who carried the message straight from Dumbledore.

When a clammy hand closed around her wrist, Hermione jolted with a terrified "Eep!" and ripped her hand out of his grasp, darting to her room.

Even if Dumbledore had ordered it, there was no way she was playing "Mommy" to Draco Malfoy.

No way.

Besides, who would notice? Exactly. No one would.


	4. Friday, After Dinner II

_Friday, After Dinner II…_

When the nightmare shook him out of his sleep, Draco's hand instantly reached out for the one thing his blurry vision could see properly, only to have the wrist he grasped wrenched away from him. He matched the voice he heard shriek in panic afterwards with Granger's, and immediately let his hand fall.

Which was all too inviting, really. His bones felt like they were made of lead. Eungh.

It took a few blinks before everything came into focus, and when he could see straight he realized he was lying on the sofa in his dorm… his head pounding, his nose burning, and the rest of his body freezing cold.

He tried shifting in his blankets – which hadn't been placed properly at all, if his hand hanging off the side of the sofa was any evidence – but then a twang of pain shot up from the base of his neck into his skull, and the pounding intensified to a shrill clang.

Groaning, he clenched his eyes shut and rode out the agony, his teeth chattering when he realized what was going on again.

Obviously, that filthy Mudblood had brought him here, so why wasn't she treating him?! And why wasn't he in the Infirmary like everyone else?!

Oh, that girl had a lot of explaining to do…

"Granger!" he shouted angrily. "Get down here, you little Mudblood! Oi! Mudblood! I said get down here, and you should know by now to listen to your superiors–"

He had fully intended to continue with his rant, but then suddenly his dry throat had caught and he couldn't breathe. Eyes widening, Draco tried to swallow, but nothing was…

"If you think I'm going to help you with that attitude, Ferret, you're _so_ wrong!"

Well, at least he'd lured the freak out of her hole. Now, if only she could do something about…

Nope, no luck. Even with his eyes tearing, Draco could tell that Granger wasn't coming any closer to the sofa. The pressure in his throat built up… racing like liquid fire up into his eyes, and all of a sudden…

Draco sneezed.

Seeing stars, he shook his pounding head, sniffing his pointed nose in disgust, then, exhausted, fell back onto the leather of the sofa.

At least Granger could sense that it wasn't like him not to retaliate… and, of course, humiliate her or her friends and come out the shining victor of their battle of quick witticisms…

His head gave a particularly harsh twinge.

"…Malfoy?"

"Ungh…"

Inwardly, he winced. He sounded almost as horrible as he felt, which was never a good thing for a Slytherin. For once, he was glad for the fact he wasn't sharing a common room with his fellow housemates, because if he was, he would never hear the end of it… his reputation as a superb aristocrat would be ruined!

He closed his eyes when he heard Granger take a few hesitant steps down into their common room, and decided to play out his annoying sickness to the fullest to see how many of his mundane whims he could get Granger to follow through with.

Of course, he was assuming she'd been given the task of making him better. He wasn't Head Boy for nothing, after all – he was quite good in making accurate assumptions.

And Granger was too much of a goody-goody to resist.

"Malfoy?"

"Ungh…"

"What's the matter?" Stupid girl. She even sounded slightly worried; this would be as easy as beating Weasley in an insult-match.

"Hurts…"

Now she seemed hesitant, but he could hear the worry in her voice increase. She still seemed too cautious to get near, though. "What hurts?"

"_Everything_ hurts…" He frowned, now, because as he spoke, he began to get dizzy. The ache in his bones increased, his head pounding harder. At least it contributed to his act…

"Oh, _please_." Wrong thing to say, apparently. "I've been to the Hospital Wing, you know, Malfoy. First-years have looked worse than you – which is pretty hard, at this point – and yet they've been braver, too. They don't complain nearly as much as you – and you only got sick today. Trust me, Malfoy, it's going to get worse, so if you can't handle it now, you won't be able to handle it then, either."

His eyes flew open and he lurched up, the blankets pooling to his waist. Granger had already retreated back to her room, though she stood in its doorway, her hand prepped threateningly on the knob. "Whaddya mean, 'looked worse than me?' I don't look _bad_! Malfoy's can _never_ look bad! It's _you_ who look bad, you good-for-nothing, filthy little Mud–"

Draco broke off with a gasp. Granger had already slammed her door, but Draco didn't notice.

The pounding had increased so intensely in his head that he slapped his hands to his head and clutched, vainly trying to stop the pain. He whined with the force of the attack, biting his lip to keep in a scream, hard enough to draw blood.

Then they waves of agony retreated, and Draco collapsed to his side, falling of the sofa limply. Cold sweat dripped from his temples, but he paid them no heed.

There Draco wallowed in his misery, knowing Granger wouldn't help him, knowing no one would notice if he just suddenly dropped off the face of the planet.

Well, except maybe Pansy.

Okay. No one _worthwhile_ would notice.

---

**A/N**: Sorry for the wait on this one. I kind of killed my neck two days ago (literally!) and was – as Draco put it – wallowing in my misery for the last little while. Wasn't exactly into writing something light – well, lighter than my usual stuff, at least. Sorry!

...Is it just me, or are the chapters getting longer? Sweet!


	5. Saturday, At Midnight

_Saturday, After Midnight…_

Hermione was mad. _Fuming_ mad. He'd tried to pull one over on her. Her! Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, and he'd tried to _trick_ her!

Well, she wouldn't be falling for it again any time soon. No-sir-ee! She would _not_ be manipulated by some conniving, spoiled little brat!

She turned beneath her covers again, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable.

But then, he _had_ looked rather ill… maybe she was too harsh when she said those things?

NO! They were all true, every single word she'd said. He was such a weakling! He'd deserved everything she'd told him. …Hadn't he? OF COURSE HE HAD! "You're being stupid, 'Mione," she whispered to herself. "He's been mean to you since the day he met you. Let him get better on his own!"

…

…

She turned over again.

…

"That's it!" she yelled, throwing her covers away from her, stalking towards her door like a crazed woman with a mission. "I'm going to give him a piece of my mind," she vowed as she stomped down the stairs to their common room. "I'm going to tell him that he won't beat me, that I'll never listen to his lies…"

She broke off when she saw the empty sofa, and the resulting pile of lifeless limbs on the hearth by the fireplace, which flames had died out long before.

"…Again…? Malfoy? Are you alright?"

This time she didn't even get a grunt as a reply, just the quick, unsteady hitched breaths that hissed in through his mouth like they pained him.

She instantly moved to help him, but suspicion cut her off before she got any closer. What if this was just another trick? He'd expected her to come to him like an obedient puppy before, hadn't he? What if he'd expected this to happen too?

"Malfoy, if this is some trick, so help me…"

Just quick, laboured breath as an answer.

"Malfoy, you're scaring me. C'mon, Ferret, say something."

Was it just her, or were those breaths getting faster and more unsteady? He'd asphyxiate himself if this kept up…

One more step to make sure, then. "Malfoy, you're such a little wimp. And your hair is such a mess – messier than – than Crabbe or Goyle's! I should go get a camera, or something, and show it to all your friends – if you have any!"

No reaction.

Okay, if Hermione wasn't worried before, she definitely was now. She quickly made her way over to him and dropped to her knees, reaching for his face to turn him onto his back so she could see how bad he really was – and promptly snatched back her hand as though burnt.

Shocked, she hesitantly lowered her hand again to his forehead, and exhaled with misery.

He was burning up, far worse than she'd expected. And his symptoms… his symptoms weren't like those with the flu in the Hospital Wing. There was vomiting, there, and rashes, but Malfoy didn't seem to have either of those. In fact, if she didn't know better, she would even say that it may have been some sort of hex that made him this way…

He coughed slightly, very weakly, and that brought Hermione out of her reverie. Thinking of all she'd learned with Madame Promfrey, as you had to learn some semblance of Healing to research medicines, Hermione quickly whipped out her wand and levitated her patient to the sofa again, then raced to the bathroom between her room and his, grabbing a clean cloth on the way to the sink.

When she came back, she held a dripping, ice-cold cloth in her hands and gently laid it out on Malfoy's forehead, grimacing when his brow evened out with relief. No doubt he was in some sort of pain now, whether it be a headache or simple muscle aches from the cold, but Hermione couldn't try a relief spell while he had a fever.

Fevers were testy in the Wizarding world. Most healing spells required some link to the receiver's mind, which made comatose or psychologically-damaged patients very hard to work with, resulting in a low-success rate. Fevers that became so dangerously high usually came hand-in-hand with nightmares, and any magic on a receiver wracked with so much negative energy could end up with very bad results.

Hermione frowned as she grabbed Malfoy's wrist to get his pulse – which was fluttering far too quickly and far too weakly for her tastes – for his skin was, coupled with being clammy, absolutely freezing. She quickly thought about a warming spell, then drew a blank when she thought about whether or not she could do so.

She had the text floating in her mind's eye within a second. "When the patient is afflicted with a fever, the proper course of action would be to… to… to – what? Any magic allowed? Will it – further – addle his brains? What?!"

Biting her lip, Hermione struggled with what she should do, and then her problems resolved in an instant when she glanced down at the sofa, and her eyes met –

Hazed, pained, silver ones.

"Malfoy? Can you hear me?" She kneeled down beside the sofa near his head and gently mopped the cloth on his forehead, grimacing when she felt what had been an icy cloth now a worrying warm one.

He didn't seem to notice she was there, but kept staring up at the ceiling with confused and – was that a bit of fear she saw there? No, couldn't be – out-of-focus eyes.

"Malfoy? Ferret? Come on, say something," Hermione found herself urging again.

He remained frustratingly silent, and at first Hermione began to get doubts about his sickness again, until she saw a sight that made her freeze to the very bone.

Very slowly, she saw his hazy eyes glisten with unshed tears, and though none fell, Hermione found herself brushing his haphazard blond hair back from his face, murmuring softly, "Draco?"

This time, he gave a slight shudder and his silver orbs painstakingly focussed on her, then his flushed cheeks and chapped lips worked together to form a sneer. "Granger? What…?" He coughed, then his voice became smoother. "What gives filth like you… the right to call me… by my first name?"

Hermione snatched her hand away and stood, an angry blush on her cheeks. "See if I ever help you again, you prat!" Then she turned on her heel and made her way back to her room, cursing her stupidity the whole way.

"A Malfoy… would never need help from a filthy Mud–" He gasped, choking like a fish out of water, and Hermione turned to see what had happened. Malfoy had his hands clasped around his head, and she saw him rip open a scab on his lip, making fresh blood drip down his chin.

Blanching, Hermione all but leapt back down to his side, prying his hands away from his face, which was scrunched up in agony. Frightened, Hermione barely noticed his grip tighten painfully around her hand as his back arched.

"Malfoy, what's the matter? Are you alright?"

Then his hand fell away from hers limply, and all Hermione could do was stare.

He was out cold.

Again.

Hermione contemplated dumping him off at the Hospital Wing to get him off her hands for good, but realized that McGonagall would know she'd shirked on her responsibilities. Instead she slipped away down the hall to Snape's stores, hoping no one would notice a few adrenaline potions missing.

She was quite certain Malfoy was going to keep her up for a while.


	6. Saturday, Six In The Morning

**No One Noticed**

_By Mireekian_

_Saturday, Six in the Morning_

Various methods of torture popped up in Draco's mind when he thought about what, exactly, in excruciating detail, he was going to do to Blaise as soon as he got his hands on him.

Maybe he would lock him in a room with acromantulas.

Or, better yet, lock him in a room with all of his prior girlfriends. See if he survived that.

Or, he could _bloody well lock him in a room with Granger while feeling miserable, and see if he got out of THAT alive_. He'd feel even more miserable after she got through with him…

Draco was shaken out of his sleep by a persistent hand on his shoulder and the gentle swath of the cloth he vaguely registered set atop his forehead. Perhaps his mind was still on his dream (nightmare, more like, not that he'd ever admit that to Granger) when she woke him up, because he could still feel his mother's arms around a six-year-old version of himself, right after getting Scarlet Fever.

So he reached out.

His hand made contact.

He clutched.

And he pulled.

Then he heard it.

"Malfoy… what are you doing?"

She'd said it so innocently, so caringly, so _lovingly_… it burned his throat with his disgust. Or maybe that was just the blush creeping from his ears to his cheeks, to bloody well cover every inch of his body.

His mind raced feverishly with excuses, and the fact that her arm was softer than any pillow definitely would not suffice. He contemplated telling her that she reminded him of Crabbe's grandmother, with her flabby arms and such, but found he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"'M hot. Your arm… isn't."

"I can tell," she commented wryly, and Draco grit his teeth at the humour in her voice. "Your whole face is burning up."

Perhaps he was being paranoid, but he was quite certain she wasn't hinting only at the fact he had a fever.

Panicking, he thrust her arm back, frowning as he turned his head, filled with despair. Moving his arms that quickly had sent a jolt of white pain through his skull, and the action had been far more difficult than he'd anticipated.

He had to growl to clear his throat enough to talk clearly – his sinuses were completely clogged, and if his chest became any more congested he might begin to fret.

"Granger?"

"Hmm?"

He blinked twice and realized she'd moved away, and immediately his heart began to beat faster. Was she just going to leave him here to die–

No. He hadn't thought that. He wasn't going to die, of course not! It was just some silly cold. A flu, nothing more. A little affliction caused by Blaise's bloody girlfriend, who he swore he would hunt down and dismember if Granger ever told anyone about what had happened.

"Where are you going?"

Her movements looked blurred to his darkening eyes. He wondered if he was going insane. After spending so much time with the resident Gryffindor princess and brain, he supposed it was quite a large possibility.

Granger turned around and even through the haze on his vision he could see her smile brightly. "No where… I just have a secret formula for you. If you can get yourself up, you can have it pretty soon."

Instantly he scrunched his nose as he heard her moving around in their small attached kitchenette, which was hardly more than a cupboard, a sink, and a small oven and stove. Come to think of it, if he inhaled deeply, he could just catch the taste of burning wood in his mouth.

The smell was comforting, so he found himself ignoring Granger's request and sinking deeper into his comforter, trying also to ignore the shuddering tremors running through his hands.

"Malfoy? I thought I told you to sit up. You won't be able to drink it otherwise."

Draco wearily opened his eyes and saw her leaning over him with a marginally-annoyed pout, her wild hair tied on the back of her head in a messy bun. "Potion?" he asked, disgusted by the way his voice shook like a leaf. Merlin, he was sounding like Longbottom with all his stuttering. A mental image of Gryffindor's klutz sporting the trademark blond hair nearly had him puking.

"Not quite," Granger said, setting a mug on the side table. "But every time I'm feeling like absolute crap, I just make this. It's ten times better than any pepper-up potion, and even works for the flu. Here, sit up and take some."

Grimacing, Draco reluctantly did as he was told, tensing his stomach to help him swing his legs off the sofa, when… nothing happened. His body was not moving. His body wasn't supposed to not move.

He expertly hid his growing panic with a snide, "I'm not drinking some fetid, muggle remedy. Malfoy's never lower themselves to having to resort to muggle… experiments!"

Granger took offence to it, obviously. But this time she surprised him. This time she knelt down on her knees next to the sofa and stared hard into his eyes. He met them stubbornly, and for a moment he felt as though stuck in time, two equally powerful magical beings staring each other down.

Then her honey eyes narrowed and time continued around them.

"You _can't_," she said figuratively. It was the lack of emotion in her voice and the blunt, matter-of-fact way she said it that made Draco's blood boil. "You can't sit up by yourself. So instead of showing physical weakness, you resort to mental weakness by degrading yourself in the eyes of the public by degrading yourself. No one likes a bully, _Draco_."

Just the last time Draco was awake (minutes, hours…?) she had eaten up his insults like an oblivious child, and yet now, she was calling his bluff. It was this fact that put his anger on hold for surprise. "Where did you learn all that psycho-analysis, Granger – were your parents sent to the loony bin 'cause they went crazy for fixing too many teeth? Or were you sent there, you lousy Mu–"

"STOP!" she suddenly screamed, and Draco flinched from the sheer noise her vocal cords could pump out. He cringed into his comforter, staring at first with wide eyes at the raving lunatic.

Well, not exactly raving.

In fact the way she was looking at him – like he was a new guinea-pig for a crazy experiment – sent shivers down his spine. He'd seen Blaise's girlfriend with the same crazed glint in her eyes. Maybe he should introduce them, see who could blow themselves up first. At the moment, he really couldn't care less which one survived, for they were both equally to blame for the entire situation.

At least in his eyes they were.

Maybe neither of them would survive.

He vowed to get them to meet, and then he'd bring up the subject of extremely difficult, high-risk, could-cause-major-catastrophe-if-done-incorrectly-by-blumbering-Longbottoms-or-clumsy-muggleborn-bookworms… potions.

Then he'd move to America before the British apocalypse.

Oh, was Granger talking? He tried to focus his thoughts and when he found he'd fairly succeeded, he listened to her teacher-esque lecture.

"I've been researching your symptoms, because they're different from those affected by the flu in the Hospital Wing, and I think there's a good chance this isn't caused by some bug going around."

Draco dared a peek out of the blankets clutched over his head (gingerly, of course), and with his eyes urged her to continue.

"I think someone may have poisoned you with a hex at dinner. You seemed fine at the end of Arithmancy yesterday before dinner, but then you collapsed right after you left. If you ingested a spell, it's highly dangerous. My guess is that whoever did it to you played on the fact you were bound to insult someone grievously, and whenever that happened, you would be afflicted with a great headache, with each one progressively worse. It's been twelve hours since dinner – haven't slept yet – and in those, I'm guessing you've had about… how many major headaches?"

"Three, if you count the one after dinner," he supplied with a scowl. He shrugged the comforters off from around his head when Granger got up and began to pace across the hearth in front of him. Draco's eyes followed her lazily, intent on staring at something to distract his head from thinking. If he thought, he felt his headache would only get worse, and there was only so much he could take.

She was chewing on her bottom lip, an expression of utter contemplation on her face, and Draco decided to centre in on that. He was quite good at admiring lips… often he had to think of other girls' lips when Pansy came in for his own, just to make it bearable.

He wondered if it would make his father mad if he thought of Granger's from now on. She did have wonderful lips, after all. They were plump and red, probably from Granger worrying them so much. She would never need to wear lipstick to colour them, which would make it easier to kiss…

Then he vowed his father would never find out _what _he thought about when he snogged Pansy. Or _who_, for that matter. No, it would be his little secret that the best lips he'd ever laid eyes upon happened to belong to Granger.

Merlin, he was losing his mind.

Luckily she snapped him out of it before he could make any stupid, reputation-ruining comment. Or action.

"No, I don't think the first one counts for much of anything. But then, if you had one and… did you faint then?"

"Malfoy's don't faint, they lose consciousness," he sneered angrily, ignoring the way her eyes rolled exaggeratedly. Best way to take out almost being caught staring at a Mudblood's lips would be to take it out on her. "But no, I didn't. I would have preferred that, however."

"Well, it's safe to say that each one is getting progressively worse." She suddenly smiled brightly, far too cheerily. It made Draco sniff with disdain… and the fact his nose was running. Couldn't she have thought to reignite the fire? It was freezing… Why wasn't he in his own bed again? Oh yeah. He couldn't move. Right.

"If you get even three more fits, Malfoy, I'm pretty sure you might get a permanent infliction. Ever heard of epilepsy?"

He had, actually. As a result of inbreeding, one of his father's uncles had the disease. He was put out of misery early on after the diagnosis, but Draco had met him just before he died.

"So, what, because I insulted someone once upon a time, I'm now cursed to never speak a mean word again or I'll get retarded?" He swore foul enough to make Granger squeak.

"It won't be retardation, Malfoy, and that's not even the politically correct way of saying mentally challenged! And epilepsy isn't even that! Chances are, you'll be able to live out a normal life if you keep from insulting anyone."

"So I'm doomed," he said gravely, wanting to sink into the floor. "All because no one noticed some revenge-centered loser put a hex into my drink. I'm going to die alone…"

"Well, I wouldn't argue with that…"

"Shut up, Granger."

---

**A/N:** Sorry for the long wait on this one, too. Now that school's started up again, updates will be lowered to once a week. But they'll be longer, I swear! And BTW, my neck's all healed (thanks Meggily and Silidons for your concern!!), but I am now suffering the affects of the mandatory fitness tests… curse you, P.E., CURSE YOU!


	7. Saturday, Twelve Noon

**No One Noticed**

_By Mireekian_

_Saturday, Twelve Noon_

"Hey 'Mione! Where have you been?"

Upon hearing her name, Hermione wrenched her heavy head off the table in the Great Hall and grinned. "Ginny!" she squealed, leaping up to envelope her friend in a hug. "I've just been…" Suddenly she hesitated.

Ginny would tell Harry who was her boyfriend who would tell Ron who would go ballistic and charge into the Head's dorm which he knew the password then find Malfoy who would be lying on the couch and Ron would yell and Harry would back him up and Malfoy would insult back and…

Inwardly Hermione gasped for breath.

Luckily, Ginny was almost as oblivious as her brother. Or Malfoy's lying ways had started rubbing off on her. Both possibilities scared her.

"If you've been working in the Hospital Wing this long, I swear I'll complain to Dumbledore. You're going to catch it, 'Mione! Then how can you help them?"

Hermione winced but hoped Ginny didn't notice. "Don't worry, Gin… my… patients aren't… contagious at this stage." _Hopefully_…

Looking at her weirdly, Ginny commented offhandedly as they sat down, "You sure? You're stuttering. You must be catching something."

Well, at least stuttering proved Hermione wasn't completely apt in lying. The thought didn't relieve her as much as she hoped. "Nah, I'm just tired." At least that was the truth. "Been up all night researching symptoms."

"Which is why I didn't catch you at breakfast, then."

"Yup."

The statement satisfied Ginny, and Hermione hid a sigh behind her pumpkin juice. The truth was, Malfoy insulted her again. That time, his nose bled. And it wasn't just because she hit him, either. Insulting her hair, teeth, and lineage, fine. But her cat? Not so fine.

And he hadn't even meant it as an insult, either. He just said Crookshanks was sadistic and that he must have had rabies, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. So she smacked him, regardless of the fact it had been the first time he'd been able to sit up since the night before (after he'd grudgingly eaten her chicken soup, which she had to warm up).

After no sleep and the potion beginning to wear off, she'd been grumpy, okay?!

She didn't even hit him that hard, but he stared at her for so long, trying to bite back an insult she could practically see on the tip of his tongue, his face began to turn red.

Still smarting from the insult to her cat, Hermione snapped, "A Malfoy – blushing? This can't be! What would father think if he found out his precious son fancied a Mudblood?!"

She was ashamed of herself when she saw confusion and – pain? – flare up in his eyes before he spat, "A Malfoy would never fancy filth!"

And that was when the seizure hit.

He went down like a sack of potatoes off a Ferris wheel. Even smacked his head off the tile in front of the fireplace!

She nearly bit her nails off trying to wake him up, then realized she was a witch and enervated him. Except when he was completely blank when his eyes opened, Hermione panicked more.

His fever spiked even higher and spread, despite her desperate attempts to cool him off.

She even resorted to calling him Draco.

Dumbledore visited not long after that, but luckily she was able to clean him up and levitate him onto the sofa once more.

He took one look at the situation, kneeled next to Malfoy and told her to go freshen up. After she'd dunked her head in cold water a few times (tried to drown herself, more like), she come out and, lo and behold, Malfoy was conscious again.

But he was in pain. A lot of pain. His head was pounding and every fibre of his being was feeling like it was being ripped apart, and had he ever experienced the cruciatus he would have compared it to that.

Of course, Malfoy didn't say it in as many words, but Hermione could tell from his raspy voice and hazy grey eyes when he looked at her and whispered hoarsely, "Get out. Just… get out."

Her heart howled with grief as the words settled in, and despite her bravest attempts to feel pleasure in the antagonist of her life's misery, she couldn't find it in herself to feel anything other than pity and sympathy.

Dumbledore gently took her aside, told her in kind words not to tell anyone of Malfoy's condition, go have some lunch, and then come back to the dorm no later than one o'clock to take over after he had to leave, giving them both some time to cool off.

Feeling like crap, Hermione had made her way down to the Great Hall, and was instantly cheered up when Ginny arrived to take her mind of it.

But alas, she mourned silently, her hour's peace was almost at its end, and she still hadn't been able to shake the thoughts of guilt. No doubt Malfoy was, at that very moment, telling Dumbledore how horrible she'd been to him.

"So, anyways, Hermione, after Harry and Ron get out of the Hospital Wing, you think we could go on a double date to Hogsmeade? You are the Head Girl, after all, so you should be able to bring just the four of us down without any complaints from the teachers."

"Ginny!" Hermione spluttered, a fine shade of red overcoming her features. She hated it when she blushed. "Ron and I aren't dating!"

Staring blandly, Ginny deadpanned, "Really. Isn't that interesting." Suddenly her eyes widened. "Hermione, is that rumour that Pansy chic has been spreading true? You and Malfoy?! Are you kidding me?!"

Aghast, Hermione shouted. "No! Never! That's just – that's just gross."

Luckily mostly everyone was down with the flu, because if the hall had been full, Hermione may have fainted from embarrassment.

A horrifying grin began to twitch at her best friend's lips. "So what you're saying is that you wouldn't mind if Malfoy just suddenly… disappeared? Or perhaps caught that flu and was the only permanent victim of it? What would you say if Malfoy died suddenly, Hermione? Well?"

Hermione went still as her heart stopped beating. To bide her time, she said, "Why do you ask, Ginny?" Unfortunately her voice was nearly as silky as Snape's, which made Ginny recoil slightly.

But the damage was done. It had been Ginny? Hermione's best friend had assaulted someone with a hex, with means to kill him? No, she couldn't immediately assume that. She needed proof, she needed evidence, she needed…

'_Malfoy'_… '_suddenly'_… '_permanent'_… '_victim'_… '_died_.' **DIED**!

…She needed to get back to the Heads dorm as fast as she could.

Hermione ignored the way Ginny frantically called after her with confusion laced in her words.

How could she have not noticed her best friend was plotting murder? Why did nobody notice?!

---

**A/N:**

Gasp! And the plot thickens… I was stuck on this one for the longest while, though I don't know for the life of me why. I have no excuse, however. Feel free to flame.

Is everything as it seems? We'll see…


	8. Saturday, Just After Lunch

**No One Noticed**

_By Mireekian_

_Saturday, Just After Lunch_

That stupid, good-for-nothing little witch. She must have known. How could she not? She wasn't Head Girl for nothing, as she was so constantly reminding Draco.

Or was she? Maybe he kept reminding himself not to bait her so badly. He couldn't' remember. Everything was so fuzzy now. Either way, Granger obviously had power behind her words. She knew just how to get him while he was down.

That comment about his father had sailed by him – he'd heard them often enough since the end of fifth year. No, it was where she insinuated what could never happen – what he wouldn't allow, and most of all, what she would never agree to. But still, how could he not stop thinking about her lips? He had a curiosity now, and he hated not being able to sate such things.

It wasn't fair.

He could barely move, and she was using it against him. She knew he'd insult her after that. She knew, and she still said it. She knew he would be assaulted by that horrible pain…

She knew, and she said it.

That's all there was to it.

He swore violently.

"Now, Draco, watch your language," admonished a familiar voice nearby.

Draco jolted, appalled he had forgotten that the Headmaster was there. He forced his eyes open and craned his neck, and saw through blurry vision that Dumbledore was sitting at the end of the sofa near Draco's feet, flipping through a magazine of some sorts. He tried to focus on what it was, but the concentration sent a pang through his head and he groaned miserably.

"It's not right to hold reason for such words inside, Draco," said the Headmaster. "If you wish, would you like to tell me what it is that's got you frustrated?"

"No," Draco grunted. He felt like he needed to be somewhere and caught himself moving to throw the covers off, before realizing there was no need, nor any strength to do so. Still, his feet shifted restlessly beneath a comforter that was suddenly too heavy. He gasped hoarsely. "Too… hot. Can't breathe… help. Please. Help. Oh… Merlin, help me please."

Rational as ever, Dumbledore said, "We need that fever to break. Being warm is good for that."

Draco shut his eyes and moaned, all resistance suddenly leaving his body. "Please…" he breathed weakly. He didn't even remember to feel appalled at such weakness. There would be time for that later. He hoped.

He gasped in a hitched breath at that thought. Could this illness be the death of him? Could this tiny little curse that no one noticed he came down with be his end? After all this, a fevered haze was how he was going to go out?

…Would anyone notice when he was gone?

Sure they would. Pansy would cry for days. Then she would fail all her courses and be forced to marry Goyle. Then they would live horribly and poorer than the Weasley's for the rest of their lives because they were both too stupid to graduate.

The thought of pug-nosed gorilla offspring should have brought a smirk to his face. He stored it away for future use when his fangirls could go gaga over it.

Cheerful work, that. Talking about gorillas being the result of his death. Just to stop that unholy union from happening, he'd make sure this stupid affliction wouldn't take his life. For the sake of the future of the world's good-looking magical people.

Suddenly he found it difficult to suck in a breath.

His hand, shaking, inched up towards his neck to take away the pressure suffocating his lungs. "Dumble…" he began, barely a breath passing from his lips, then his hand fell limply to his side.

This couldn't be happening. What had he just sworn?! What had he just sworn… something about pug-faced gorillas. Wasn't it? The pug-nose on the creature suddenly turned into pink, worried lips, and the hair all over the creature gathered at the top of its head in bushy, frizzy locks.

The smile he'd been saving twitched onto his face before he opened his eyes and everything shifted into focus.

There was a faint pounding resounding through his ears, drowning out everything else. He squinted and saw Dumbledore firecalling what looked like Pomfrey, and leaning over him, her hazel eyes wide and frightened, was the epitome of the bushy-haired menace with the reddest, most natural lips he'd ever seen.

Oh, wait. The lips were forming something, resembling words. They were repeating the same thing over and over again, and Draco found it odd he couldn't hear what she was saying.

The smile slipped from his features and he felt a frown slide into place, trying to solve this new puzzle. He tried to concentrate on her whole face, seeing if he could get any clues from her expression, but a spreading fire in his head warned him that the Law of Parsimony was perhaps best in this situation.

He centered his senses, his blurry vision, his dulled nose, his muted ears, his numb touch, onto her lips. Though he would have been content with her face, lips were good too. Yes… good. Just like that. She leaned in, and dimply he felt the displacement of air as her hands clutched his biceps and shook him as best as she could. Now she was closer.

He sighed.

"Hold on, Malfoy. Hold on. Hold on. Hold on!"

He frowned.

Her mouth was forming those words. And they kept on saying it. For a moment he wondered if he was stuck in some new dimension with no capabilities of any sense that ran like a broken record, repeating one scene over and over again, but then…

He felt an old, bony hand resting on his forehead and suddenly he grew lucid again. Draco could have smacked himself when he realized he'd been staring at Granger's lips. Again. For longer.

Lovely.

Then Pomfrey broke into his vision, taking up Granger's place. A grimace twisted his features and when the mediwitch began bellowing out orders, he wished that Dumbledore had left him deaf.

"Albus, you need to track down the student or students responsible for this and get the name of whatever hex or curse caused this. Hermione, dear, are you certain you have no idea who could be behind this?"

"None at all, Madame Pomfrey."

Draco frowned. Only a Slytherin would have been able to tell it was a lie. Granger knew who did this? He'd kill her! Now if only he could move, or voice the threat so she would be forced to tell them out of fear!

…Threats were no fun when you couldn't mess with other people's heads.

"Alright. I'll be working on a cure," Pomfrey continued. "I'll need you researching what spells could have caused this, if the perpetrators made it up themselves – and you – must – watch – him – at – all – times. Is that understood, Hermione? Bind his mouth, if you have to, but keep him from saying anything negative. Now, about his unaware state, how often have you seen him like that?"

"Only after one of his fits."

Fits? She called them _fits_? That ingrate! Malfoy's didn't have _fits_. They had uncontrolled muscle spasms coupled with massive pain afflictions. Not _fits_. How disgraceful.

"Albus, did Mr Malfoy have a seizure in your care?"

…Seizure. That would work too. Uncontrolled Muscle Spasm Coupled With Massive Pain Affliction may turn out to be hard to inform bystanders if you had one in public.

"No, not under my care."

He imagined Granger flushing with humiliation at the unwitting insult to her caretaking abilities. By the Headmaster, of all people.

"That's not good," Pomfrey said gravely. "It means the infection is worsening. Was there any prior difference you noticed in Mr Malfoy before he fell into that state?"

"Yes, he said he was too warm and needed help. Also… I checked his fever and found it far worse than anything I've come across. Once I brought him back to awareness, his fever went down again – still worryingly high, but not quite that bad."

There was wonder in Pomfrey's voice when she replied, after she stood and began walking away from Draco's line of sight. "I've never come across this before. I believe when Mr Malfoy goes into that state, he is suffering mini-seizures. Many more of those, they will become regular and he will suffer them for the rest of his life, epilepsy or not. A full recovery, at this point, is quite doubtful."

Granger gasped. Draco conveniently stuffed the information to the back of his skull, behind that shroud of darkness. Hmm… it was quite inviting, that darkness. Maybe he should just slip into it. They wouldn't notice, would they?

"Draco," Dumbledore said, and his voice was far away. "Come back, now, Draco."

He opened eyes he didn't remember closing and found himself being levitated towards the Head's shared bathroom. That was a jolting experience. How long had he been out?

"Wha–" he tried to ask, but found his voice little more than a rasp on a breath.

Luckily Dumbledore was smarter than he looked. "We need to keep your temperature down, Draco, or you will never get a full recovery. It may come as bit of a shock but…"

The spell keeping Draco in the air lowered him into the empty bath, and Granger quickly helped him half-sit, half-lie in the cold tub. He shivered.

Then Granger started taking off his robes, and his eyes nearly bugged out of his skull.

He couldn't even move his arms to stop her. And Dumbledore was right there!

Then again, Draco wondered that if he had strength… would he still try to push her away?

She only took his shoes and outer robes off, leaving him in a black undershirt with the Slytherin crest on the upper left of his chest, and his black slacks. Then, with a blush creeping up her neck to her cheeks, Granger looked up in askance at their Headmaster.

Dumbledore nodded. Granger gulped. Draco felt faint.

Then, she pursed her lips, shook her head, and mouthed an apology. Not to Draco, but to Dumbledore.

Or maybe she actually said it…

Uh-oh.

Granger turned on the water, and Draco couldn't feel its temperature.

_Uh_-oh.

The water lifted his bare arms and he glanced at them, seeing the whole-body flush of a full-on fever.

_Uh_-oh. Uh-oh!

Then Granger leaned back over the bath, placed her hand on his forehead, looked back at Dumbledore, got a determined glimmer in her eyes, and suddenly…

The water burned. Like ice. He could smell Granger's hair. Like strawberries. He could hear his heart thudding in his chest.

The onslaught of unexpected senses pushed Draco over the edge and he nearly screamed from the sheer expanse of it. Instead, he dove back in his mind, found the darkness, and succumbed.

As the rest of his body followed his example and slumped limply into the water, Hermione Granger froze.

She glanced at Dumbledore.

Then she looked back at her patient.

"I think you may have overdone it, Miss Granger."

She'd been hoping no one would notice she put a bit too much oomph into the wandless spell she'd been practicing for healing in the infirmary.

…

She stared at the slack face of Draco Malfoy.

"Oops."


	9. Saturday, Quarter to Six

**A/N:** Here it is, the very last chapter. It's pretty long, over double the length of any other. I was contemplating adding an epilogue, but there's nothing really to wrap up. So strap on your gears and get ready for fireworks.

I just wanted to thank everyone who reads this, even if you don't review. This has been my best project yet, and with the deletion of two other fanfics, I was feeling a little depressed. But this cheered me up, just thinking about your thoughts and feedback! So there's your mission: feed back! Author is hungry.

**No One Noticed**

_By Mireekian_

_Saturday, 5:45pm_

Had you told Hermione Granger one week ago that she'd be taking care of Draco Malfoy while he wore nothing more than a tight black shirt and his slacks – and a raging fever – in their shared _bathtub_, not only would she have personally signed you in to St. Mungo's mental ward – because she's nice like that – she would have marched right up to said Malfoy and insult him (badly) just to prove she would never, ever do something like that.

But no.

Here she was, not even twenty-four hours after she first found him lying forlornly in a heap in a corridor off the Great Hall, mopping his forehead and making sure he didn't slip under.

Though would anyone really miss him?

Hermione groaned and let the cloth drop back down into the water. She'd filled the tub back up again after Madame Pomfrey stopped in to run a few diagnostic spells and try out a few potions.

Unfortunately, the potions had a negative affect on his awareness. Apparently that was their purpose, though – to make him delirious so he wouldn't insult her. Surely he would have if he could see her, though – her eyes were baggy and her robes were atrociously wrinkled.

The unkemptness made her twitch.

Badly.

Badly enough, in fact, that Dumbledore insisted for her to wind down and simply watch over her patient, especially since the drugs would make it difficult to detect mini-seizures.

Worst of all, Pomfrey had enlisted the help of Susan Bones to do Hermione's job. Susan was nice, from what Hermione could tell from the few classes they shared, and she was definitely in the top ten academia-wise. In fact, if Hermione was the competitive type – which she would deny vehemently and then point out every way that possibility was flawed, and then continue to point it out every chance she had – she might be a little worried about her standing.

In the end it came down to the fact Hermione was Head and Susan was not. Ha! And she was _so_ not competitive. Get it?!

Man, she needed sleep.

As it was, Susan now had Hermione's Headmaster-instructed job, and Hermione was stuck making sure Draco Malfoy didn't drown.

He was being so quiet it was eerie. His eyes were wide and dilated, and he was propped against the wall of the tub, just staring out into space. Every so often his mouth would open as though to say something, and he'd frown like a little child before he'd lose his focus.

It was… cute. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

It was like seeing Santa mwa-ha-ha and Voldemort giggle. Like a girl. It made him look creepy and wrong, devilishly angelic and so undeniably innocent. And if there were definite truths in the world, it was that two plus two equalled four, you can't put mascara on without opening your mouth, and Draco Malfoy was the farthest from innocent anyone could get.

"You're evil, Malfoy," she mumbled angrily, turning away for a second to retrieve another cloth, as she didn't want to reach into cool water up to her shoulder.

She turned back to the tub and jolted in surprise. Malfoy's face was tilted towards her, and he was looking at her with wide, vulnerable eyes.

Hermione winced at her thoughts the same time she snickered at them, imagining the clash if Malfoy ever found out she'd thought of him as vulnerable. He'd shriek like a spoiled toddler who missed out on their birthday cake.

"M' name's Draco," he said suddenly, and Hermione froze. "Not Malfoy. Malfoy's m' dad."

Hermione fished for something to say and came up blank. Had he somehow regressed into a child's state of mind? How much had those drugs screwed him up?

"Wha's yur name?"

"Hermione," she replied instinctively. Guardedly, she added, "Hermione Granger."

Malfoy frowned and his bottom lip thrust out in a pout. Hermione nearly cringed. "Her-mine-ee Her-mine-ee Granger. Tha's a weird name, Miss Miney Miney Grange."

She was thrown for another loop on that one. She dipped the cloth in the water to save time and wrung it out, thinking hard. Struck by inspiration, Hermione said "How old are you, Malfoy?"

His lip pouted again and she had to look away for fear of puking. As it was, her stomach jumped uncomfortably.

"M' name's not Malfoy!" he insisted mulishly.

"Well what do you want me to call you?"

"Draco! I's m' name. My Mum wanted Xavier too, so tha's my middle name."

Xavier, huh? Hermione would have to remember that one.

Whoa, whoa, whoa – _wait_.

"So now you _want_ me to call you Draco!" The conversation was as exasperating as it was creeping her out. Seeing a nearly fully-grown teenage boy talking like a five- or six-year-old, staring at you with wide eyes so often narrowed in a sneer, and coming from a marble bathtub? It made her skin crawl and her need to figure out a reason for this made her itch for the library.

"Whaddya mean? Why wou'n't I?"

"Hardly a couple hours ago you were yelling at me not to call you by your name, as I'm not 'worthy.' So now you do, is that what you're telling me?"

His eyes, if possible, got wider. "I don' 'member that. Sorry."

Gasping, Hermione snapped, "Why?" and grimaced in distaste when he flinched away. His eyes got cloudy and Hermione quickly floundered for something to say. She wasn't sure what she would do if he started to cry. Probably puke. Her stomach already felt like it was in knots. "How old are you, Draco?"

He shrugged miserably. "Doesn't matter. I get it – you don' wanna talk to me. Sometimes Daddy's the same way when he's got his friends coming."

Shudder, twitch, twitch.

_Daddy_?

Shudder, shudder.

"No, I really want to know." And really, she did. The first chance she got she'd research things like this and figure out if she could be the first to cure a mental regression. Even though this was drug induced and would wear off, would the user have any recollection –

"M' six."

Hermione hid a grin as possibilities of finding out how Malfoy was raised ran through her mind. This was her chance of retribution – maybe she could ask Luna to get her dad to publish this entire interview. But then… the Quibbler was the Wizarding World's equivalent to the National Inquirer, and no one respectable actually believed any of that. Plus, Malfoy probably wouldn't even remember all this, and Hermione's reputation would probably end up ruined.

Still, it would be a great story for Ron and Harry after they got rid of those nasty rashes…

"What's your mother like, Draco?"

His wide, grey eyes lit up. "Mum? She's real nice. And pwetty. Pansy's Mum isn't as pretty as mine. And she's real smart, too. I bet she knows even more magic than Daddy!" He was getting excited and began to fidget, shifting around on the marble seat in the water.

Then he froze up, clutched his chest, and started coughing. His free hand smacked the water and it sloshed over the side of the tub, wetting her front from her blouse down to her crouched toes.

"Malfoy, you clumsy ferret!" Hermione fumed, jumping away to avoid the rest of the splash, but failed. She was wearing a white shirt, too. He'd probably acted out the whole thing, just to fulfil his stupid male urges and see through her shirt! "How infuriating can you get? Even when you're sick, you're impossible!"

His coughing calmed and he stared at her, looming over him, with a gaping mouth and terrified, hazy eyes.

In that moment, Hermione didn't see the boy who had just dumped water on her. She didn't see a seventeen-year-old, devilish, childish, petulant bully that had always antagonized her and her friends, made her life at Hogwarts miserable. All she saw was a childlike innocence, a panic that was set in his bones as he tried so hard to be strong even though he knew retribution would come like a swift arrow in the night and be ten times more painful, and a deep, sorrowful regret that showed he was, genuinely and truly, sorry for getting her wet.

"I'm sorry!" he cried. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to."

Biting her tongue, Hermione flicked the water off her hands and grabbed a towel. "It's okay," she said, hoping it didn't sound as stiff as her back felt after leaning over a sick Malfoy all day. How could he have gotten so much water flying with just one slap to the surface? Even when he didn't mean to, Draco had still done the worst he could to her.

Wryly, Hermione smiled. It was like he'd instilled a microchip in his mind that no matter where he was or what he was doing, if Hermione Granger was there, he had to make her miserable. Even if he didn't want to.

Pondering that, Hermione wondered if Lucius Malfoy would stoop so low. Nah… he still thought his son was capable of evil, regardless of whether or not a curse was placed on him. Then again…

"Is that why I'm evil?"

Startled, Hermione nearly slipped on the wet tile and flailed until she caught her balance on the sink. She didn't miss Draco's flinch when she stumbled.

"What? And what's the matter?"

"Before, you told me I'm evil. I know what evil is, but no one's never ever called me that before. Daddy just says I can't do nothing right. But maybe it's jus' cuz 'm evil?"

"You're father said that?" Hermione gasped, and was shocked when she felt anger welling up in defence for someone she thought she hated. She just chalked it off to her ingrained sense that what Draco was describing was emotional unacceptable.

Draco shrugged.

"Why?"

His eyes widened for a brief second, then he whispered conspiratorially, "Can you keep a secret?"

"Yes." Hermione crossed her finger the same time she thought, 'But I never said I would for you.'

"I still wet the bed. An' I sometimes wanna play with the muggle kids in the parks when Daddy takes me to London. An' once, I burped really loud when Daddy's friends were over, and he didn't like that very much."

Hermione nearly imploded from not even squeaking out a laugh, but she commended herself for not making a sound. But her face threatened to explode from the pressure. Finally, she strangled out, "Wetting the bed is perfectly normal for someone… around six." She was going to say 'your age,' but guessed rather accurately she wouldn't be able to win her internal laughing struggle.

Draco's face lit up. "Really? Daddy says I must be a Squib cuz I'm so stupid. But…" his face fell, "then if it's normal, does that mean I'm evil? I don' wanna be evil. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing… Draco."

"You're really pretty when you're all red. Like, angry or blushing. And you have really pretty lips."

"Urg…" she spluttered.

"Have we met before, cuz I think I remember you yelling at me before. And… and did you ever smack me? Because I think I remember that, too, and your face was especially red and pretty then. And I can see you sitting in a class, chewing on your lips, and now whenever I see you, all I can think about is…"

Hermione thought, in the way random and unexpected thoughts flit across minds, that Draco was beginning to talk a little more like an adult, and with a flash of realization that had her reeling, she knew the drugging potions were wearing off. Fast. She could only hope she could get him to stop talking before he realized it, too.

"Don't!" she shrieked, the same time he finished, "…Kissing you."

They both froze, and Hermione unconsciously started worrying her lips until she saw his eyes flit towards the movement and she stopped, mortified. She saw the dawning horror mirrored in his quicksilver eyes, saw the extra spurt of blood rush to his cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with the fever, and then saw him look up towards the heavens before he dunked himself in the water.

"Draco!" she screamed, lunging for his arm or hair or shirt to stop him, and she felt the black silk top clenched between her fingers before he jerked out of her grasp with a strength she didn't know he possessed. She barely registered the cool water enveloping her arm, but she knew with a knowledge she was afraid she had that he would rather drown than face the humiliation of seeing her after his confession.

She didn't even pause to take off her shoes before she leaped into the six-foot-deep bathtub filled with relatively cool water (like her pool in the summer, she'd mused as she had filled it up earlier) and fought with Draco, her claws out and lashing, to pull him up.

When they broke the surface, Hermione struggled to get them over to the stairs and they collapsed there, sprawled half-in and half-out of the tub, his hair plastered to his skin while hers had already begun to frizz again, his chest heaving as he recovered from the exertion and her chest…

…white shirt plus wet shirt equals…

But oh well, because she had landed on her front halfway on top of him and his eyes were staring bleakly at the ceiling, and Hermione was too frazzled from lack of sleep and loads of stress that she really didn't care anymore what (or where) he thought of her.

The silence was deafening and Hermione was still smarting from the fact her charge had just tried to _drown_ himself, that she decided to be just a little evil. Besides, she was quite certain that his humiliation was so great this time that she was positive he wouldn't respond scathingly… he was too defeated… to… _vulnerable_.

The fact he might get a seizure _completely_ escaped her train of thought. Really.

"So, Draco…"–and she ignored the way he stiffened–"…How old were you when you stopped wetting the bed?"

"Shut up, Granger."

"So you remember all of it? You do, don't you, Draco?"

"…Don't call me that."

"But you told me to."

"You know I wouldn't have if I knew what was happening."

"So how often did you burp at your father's parties?"

"Drop it, Granger."

"What happened to Miss Miney Miney Grange, huh, Draco?"

"I'm gonna kill Pomfrey for this."

"And what about how pretty I was, huh? Or mind explaining your private little fetish about playing with muggles? I was under the impression you hated them, thought they were dirt. So I guess you wanted to play with mud and get dirty back then, did you Draco? What changed? Did you forget? Or have you tried not to be such a mess-up and gain affection from your father?"

"I said drop it, Granger." There was a note of warning in his voice that told Hermione she'd gone too far, but she was on a roll and nothing was going to stop her. She was going to break the mystery of Draco Malfoy's layered personality, even if the fumes from the onion made her cry.

She pitched herself over to straddle him and leaned down, biting her bottom lip, but he determinedly kept his eyes trained on her own. It was only as she formed the words, "And to think, all this time perfect pureblooded Draco Malfoy has fancied the lips of a mudblood," that she realized just how far she'd gone.

Draco grabbed her shoulders and rolled them over so they were completely out of the water, and in one fluid motion pressed his lips on hers.

Hermione only heard the pounding of her heart in her throat and the roaring in her ears as her eyes slowly closed and her arms, acting on their own, snaked up to wrap around his neck.

And then the sound of someone clearing their throat reached through the haze around them, and Hermione all but shoved Draco off of her as she whipped her head around to the entrance, a mortified blush flushing her entire face the colour of a tomato. It was the kind of red Draco would probably like, an evil little voice in her head said.

"Feeling better, Mr. Malfoy?"

Hermione didn't move her gaze from Dumbledore's amused, twinkling blue eyes, but she didn't have to see Draco to know when his arms gave out and he collapsed onto her, his forehead to her collarbone. She gave a wriggling squeak, but made no other reaction.

"Just peachy, Headmaster," Draco rasped.

"I assumed so. The guilty students have been caught, Mr. Malfoy, and they were able to break the spell on sight."

Hermione felt a jolt of fear go through her, fearing for Ginny, but then realized Dumbledore had said 'students' and she wondered exactly who was behind it.

"Miss Bones said she'd overheard her classmates discussing some spells and began her search there, and within a few hours was able to determine exactly what occurred yesterday, and the hex that was used. Madame Pomfrey has already discerned that there will be no lasting effects from the curse, as it was taken care of earlier enough. You will be back to normal before classes begin on Monday, I'm sure, if you spend the remainder of tonight and tomorrow resting under Miss Granger's keen eye – if you deem it necessary, Miss Granger?"

Desperately, Hermione made to shake her head. She didn't think she'd be able to stand it if Draco advanced on her again, and if he was going to be regaining his strength – with no worries about epilepsy if he insulted her, and he could try to kiss her again, just to –

Then she remembered that flash of white, the roaring in her ears, the blissful feathery touch of his chapped lips on her own, and Hermione found herself worrying her bottom lip again.

Betraying her logic, Hermione squeaked, "Certainly, Professor."

"And Mr. Malfoy? Do you agree?"

He shifted his head and angled it to stare questioningly into Hermione's eyes, and with a moment's hesitation, nodded curtly.

"Alright then," Dumbledore exclaimed as he retreated from the bathroom. "If that's settled, I do believe I have other pressing matters to attend to… I'm out of lemon drops! Off to Hogsmead, then…"

---

Harry Potter was feeling especially cheerful after getting released from the Hospital Wing. It was an exciting feeling, really, to achieve freedom from that incessant itching that nearly drove him crazy. It was like having the Chicken Pox all over again, except ten times worse and all concentrated in… embarrassing areas.

He was just walking to the Great Hall after changing into a fresh set of robes in Gryffindor Tower when a shout made him freeze in his veritable skipping down the hall.

"Harry!"

He glanced up at the sound of his name and a grin split his face as he saw Ginny racing towards him. The smile slipped off his face when he saw the sheer terror written across her freckled cheeks.

"Ginny? What's the matter?"

"Where's Ron?"

"He's probably already at dinner. He got out earlier than me, so –"

"Don't care!" Ginny snapped, panting beside him.

Slightly hurt, Harry frowned. "Ginny, what's–"

"Was Hermione in the Hospital Wing?"

"No, I haven't seen her all day. I guess she got the day off, since Pomfrey found a good cure earlier today."

"Yeah, that's what I thought, but I haven't seen Hermione since lunch." Suddenly she grabbed Harry's sleeve and began dragging him through the hall. "I thought she went to the library or something, but then it clicked. Draco Malfoy's one of the only Slytherins not to get sick, and yet I haven't seen him all day."

Confused, Harry asked, "So? Who cares about Malfoy?"

"Harry!" Ginny grumbled, in a way that made Harry blush and all too aware that she was clutching his arm to her chest. "Both Hermione and Malfoy have been missing all day!"

A surge of anger and worry rose up in his chest. "Malfoy's done something to her."

Ginny nodded, grimly, quite the feat for someone running their fastest through the hall. They nearly collided with Colin Creevy, but Ginny swerved just in time.

"That's what I think, too. She looked terrified when I asked her about him at lunch today. He must have acted on a threat."

"We have to hurry!"

They made it all the way from Gryffindor Tower to the Head dorm in record time, and Harry shouted, "Chrysanthemum!" at the top of his lungs the moment they made it past the last bend. They barged in through the opened portrait, Hermione's name formed on their lips, and at the sight before them, Ginny screamed.

Draco Malfoy was there, all right.

And so was Hermione.

They were soaking wet.

Hermione's shirt was nearly transparent.

Malfoy's hand was around her neck.

Hermione's hands were around his.

They were staring at their intruders with open mouths and red splotched on their cheeks.

Before Harry and Ginny had arrived, they were kissing. _Kissing_!

Then Malfoy smirked and sat down lazily on the couch, pulling Hermione down to sit on his lap. Harry's hands curled into fists, but Hermione didn't even complain.

"Why do your friends always have to interrupt, Granger?"

Then Pansy Parkinson blasted in through the portrait, shoved both Ginny and Harry aside in one go, and stared just as Harry had at the couple on the loveseat.

Draco sighed, but Hermione smirked, mirroring (much to Harry's terror) the Malfoy smirk, turned her face towards Draco and planted her lips on his.

Pansy made a kind of gurgling noise then fainted dead away.

Draco turned to Pansy's prone form, then back to Hermione with a delighted smile. "I'm going to have to keep you around."

"You'd better," she countered playfully. "No one makes chicken soup quite like I do."

"Really?" Draco said wryly. "I hadn't noticed."

---

"This is your fault, you know," Pavarti groaned to her sister. The Headmaster had just stepped out of his main office to floo their parents.

"ACHOO!" Padma snapped, "How was I supposed to know the stupid illness was actually a real illness? All of the evidence pointed at Malfoy."

"So? Now you got us both in trouble!"

"You were the one who said no one would notice!"

"No one _did_ notice! It was that girl from _your_ House that figured it out. How could you talk about that stupid curse in front of her, anyway?!"

"I was proud of it!"

"You should have kept it quiet. That way, no one would have noticed when we used it."

"_NO ONE NOTICED_!"

---

_fin_

---


End file.
